Of Padraigs, Werewolves, and Incubi
by Ange du Mort Noir
Summary: SLASH HPDM, possible SSRL. Harry disappears on the eve of his sixteenth birthday but to where? And does he really want Malfoy to pick up the pieces?
1. The Eve of Maturity

**Disclaimer and Author's Note:** Hi. I don't own Harry Potter. Never have, never will. This story is SLASH - that's guy on guy relationship stuff for those who don't know - so before I explain anything, I'VE GIVEN YOU FAIR WARNING. Now then, this is my first SLASH story, so constructive criticism would be more than welcome. I don't intend for the SLASH to get very graphic, but . . . it could happen. Not sure. Adult language may and can be used, so that's yet another warning. Rape, cutting, suicide (attempts or success, not sure which right now), character death (still debating about that), and general angst, so there you go. Oh, and by the way, it's SLASH.

---

He supposed that being locked out of the house while the Dursleys were on vacation wasn't the worse that could have happened. After all, ever since the Order—namely, Professor Moody, the one Vernon was _really_ frightened of—threatened them concerning his well-being, he was rarely beaten anymore. It was as if the Dursleys were trying to ignore his existence. Every morning he had woken to find a piece of paper with a list of chores shoved under the door. He would do the chores and return to his room, lying on the small cot until the next day with nothing to do or keep him occupied except his memories. Uncle Vernon had boarded up his window and kept Hedwig downstairs. Harry had no contact with the wizarding world besides the dictated letters Vernon forced him to write.

The last letter—the one written about six days ago—Vernon made him write that he was going on a vacation with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, sans owl because 'it wouldn't look right in the outside world'—a watered down version of what Vernon had screamed and snarled out. Afterwards, Vernon kicked the poor owl out of the window, kicked Harry out of the house and into the backyard, locked all doors and windows, informed Harry that if he left the backyard there would be dire consequences, and left.

With Aunt Petunia and Dudley, of course.

His stomach growled loudly, and he tipped his head back to stare blankly at the full moon in the dark sky. The Dursleys hadn't been too keen on feeding him. Harry had had a stash of food underneath the loose floorboard in his old room, but after the first three weeks, it had run out—he hadn't expected that he'd be completely on his own in getting food to eat, and had sort of been expecting to rely on Mrs. Weasley's cooking that came through owl mail. It shouldn't have come as such a big surprise, though, and he wondered idly whether conjuring food would be enough to get him expelled from Hogwarts. It didn't matter, though—his wand, along with everything faintly magical or related to his school, was stuffed in his trunk, locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Hunger had driven him to eating grass and leaves, though it didn't seem to help much. He had tried to leave the backyard—who cared what Vernon had ordered?—but he couldn't. There were wards of some type around the house; by the time he reached the edge of the drive, it felt like his skin was ready to peel off his bones.

The full moon was pretty, he decided, lying flat on his back. Remus was transforming. He remembered the last time he saw Remus transform, who he had been with and what he had been offered—but Sirius was dead. Sirius wouldn't be helping Remus through anymore changes, because of _him_ . . .

His mind spiraled into black depression and overwhelming agony, and almost instantly his hand tightened on the shard of glass he had located against the fence. In a short, vicious motion, he sliced open skin, ignoring the depth and pain, because he had to force back that darkness, force himself to focus on the pain in this world that he _had_ to stop, that he _had_ to fix.

Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes at the back of the yard. Lethargically, Harry turned his head and regarded the bleary shapes and half-formed shadows apathetically. The noise did not sound again, and he returned to staring at his arm. Almost lovingly, he traced a faint path of blood down the inside of his arm, the sight of red welling upwards soothing and more than a little comforting. He wasn't suicidal or anything—couldn't be, with Voldemort out there in the world—but it gave him . . . sort of a feeling of control, of being able to do this and dictate how deep, how long, how often. It was one of the few things that was left to him and he guarded it jealously. So well, in fact, that no one had ever noticed, not even when he had had to re-grow those bones in his arms. Of course, he hadn't started until he had finished the first year of Hogwarts, so there weren't that many scars then, but all his glamours had held up against even the strongest spells cast on him to determine his medical standing.

But something was wrong tonight, and he could feel it. With a sigh, he stood up, intending to look in the bushes for the source of the noise, when there was a howling roar, and a stone-grey something slammed into him. He felt abrupt pain, and then knew nothing more.

* * *

"What do you mean, he's gone?" 

Dumbledore eyed Professor Lupin covertly. How much to tell, he wondered idly, and decided on the barest facts.

"There was a disturbance last night, around three in the morning. Apparently, Harry left the wards at that time."

Remus Lupin was normally a very patient man, but since the . . . death, of Sirius, his latest defeat in the attempt to secure a paying job, and the fact that he was forbidden from contacting James's son in any way, shape, or form, he was edgy and more than a little furious.

"Who took him?" he demanded.

Dumbledore frowned—the one sticking point in all of this. Someone _had_ to have taken him, for he had specifically modified the wards to make sure Harry could not leave the property until August 31. However, to inform Remus of this would inevitably lead to an investigation—an investigation that would be best left in another's hands. On top of that, the wards had not registered anyone's presence in the vicinity of Number 4 Privet Drive at any time for the past couple of weeks besides Harry. "Apparently, no one. The wards indicate that Harry left under his own volition." Another half-truth—no, he admonished himself shamefully, better to tell the truth at least in his own mind. A blatant lie. The only reason Harry could ever bypass the wards was in the event that he was unconscious, and even then, he would still suffer extreme distress in crossing over that boundary.

"Where is he now?" Remus growled, face flat and eyes dead, though the anger that permeated the room left very little doubt that the wolf inside was angry—no, not angry, _furious_. Perhaps Dumbledore should have waited until more days had passed, to make sure the full moon's influence had ended . . .

Remus stepped forward, tense and tight. "Albus, school starts in a month. Will you have him back by then?"

"I fully intend so, Remus," Dumbledore said, trying not to let his age show in his voice. Why was it that every situation with Harry required so many falsehoods, so many evasions, so much mystery to confuse those that could truly help the youth?

That seemed good enough for Lupin at the moment—he suddenly sat down and put his face in his hands. "Gods. Why on the eve of his birthday, Albus?"

Dumbledore felt his face go slack in utter disbelief. He couldn't have forgotten that—it couldn't have been the boy's sixteenth birthday—no, it just _had_ to be something else—"I don't know, Remus. Maybe he had wanted to spend it somewhere else, with friends, perhaps, and something happened?"

Another lie. Dumbledore tried his hardest not to feel disgusted with himself.

"Maybe," Remus said tiredly, but Dumbledore could tell the man did not believe it. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"I will, Remus," Dumbledore said gently. "I swear I will."


	2. A Dark Place

_**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR and Warner Bros and anyone else JKR lets—which does not include me.**_

_**WARNING: Graphic torture/mental abuse scene and adult language.**_

**_A/N: This story is posted at thehexfiles . com and hpfandom . net under my other penname, Ange Noir. If you want to read farther into the story, you may look for it at those sites._**

* * *

Wherever he was, it was _bloody _cold. And wet, and smelled _horrible_. With his head pounding and throat feeling as if it was shredded, he sat up and tried to look around.

Well, he had no glasses so he couldn't see anything anyway, but he almost immediately lied back down and curled up again. What the bloody _hell _was he doing naked?!

"Ah, you're awake."

He lifted his head, just a little, and narrowed his eyes in a futile attempt to focus his blurry gaze on the man that stood over him.

"You may be wondering where you are and who I am. All you need to know is that, besides your food and my friends, you will see nothing and no one else for the rest of your life. You also may be wondering why you are in this state. I will explain slowly, in hopes that your feeble mind may grasp it the first time I tell it."

A claw-like hand, skin rough and coarse, suddenly brushed his shoulder. Harry jerked away—only to find that he was chained down like a dog; fetters on wrists and knees bound them and kept him from lifting them more than a couple of inches off the floor, and a chain around his neck fastened to a rung on the stone floor, preventing him from looking around. His mind flashed with fear.

"You may as well get used to my touch. This is the only type of human contact you will be allowed, for a monster such as yourself doesn't deserve anything more."

At this, Harry finally found his voice. "What the bloody hell do you mean, monster? I'm not the one who chained down a kid, stripped him naked, and then tried to _touch _him!"

"_Crucio_."

Pain shot through Harry's body, and he involuntarily arched upwards, eyes rolling back in his head and convulsing, the chains digging into his skin as they refused to yield any farther. It felt like hours before the pain ended, and Harry slumped against the floor, shivering and shuddering.

"First, I suppose I must lay some ground rules. You are not, under any circumstances, allowed to talk—"

"Shut the fuck up, you bastard!" Harry spat, arms and legs trembling.

"_Crucio_."

Again, agonizing fire lanced throughout his body, and he could hold it in no longer—a wild scream tore its way out of his throat, echoing in the chamber. When the pain died and Harry could stop screaming, he could hear the smile in the other's voice.

"You are allowed to scream, though, and whimper, and beg. You will not eat anything except what we directly give you. You will not leave this room, and you will not attack me or my friends at all—"

"You _wish_, you son of a _bitch_," Harry panted.

"_Crucio_."

Keening sobs and shrieks wracked his body and ripped from his straining throat. Harry quivered and shuddered and convulsed in his bonds as the pain came and left for a grand total of six times. That cold, impersonal, but amused voice intruded again.

"You will get no food unless you comply, and there will always be one of us to continually administer this curse until you give in. Now, as to explaining the situation you are in, I think it best to do so now, to prevent any foolish notions of escape."

Harry opened his mouth, but before anything could exit, the muttered word "_Silencio_" cut off all and any attempts. He glowered and screamed, albeit ineffectively since all noise was now prevented from being voiced, but it did not seem to faze his jailor. He needed his glasses, he thought frantically, so he could at least _see _what was being done to him—

"On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, the Dark Lord sent one of his minions to your family's house. Sadly, they were not there, so we could not extend to them the pleasure of watching you break and then toying with them, but you were so conveniently available that he could not return to the Dark Lord empty-handed. He Apparated here, secured one of our pet projects, and returned. He released this monster on you, and then brought you here.

"I suppose you might be wondering what we do here, just what happened to you, and why you are not currently dead underneath the Dark Lord's wand. Firstly, we create and tame werewolves for our Dark Lord, and you are now our newest inmate."

Werewolves? A sickening feeling appeared in Harry's gut.

"The Dark Lord will be informed of your capture when we have successfully watched you turn into your new form and tamed the beast within you to do whatever He wishes. As you near the next full moon, your strength will increase, you eyesight will improve drastically, and your violent nature will be incensed. On the night of the full moon, I will release you into our special pen and let you feast upon human flesh, as your beast will greatly desire to do so. Between now and the next full moon, you will be visited by me and my friends. If you manage to keep from breaking any rules, you will be fed and petted and taken care of. If not, you will remain in your chains, in your excrement and filth, and will be subjected to beatings and the Cruciatus curse for however long we see fit to do so."

Once more, that claw-like hand brushed over Harry's bare skin and Harry could not stop the whimper that appeared in his throat as he pulled away. The man chuckled.

"Soon, you will find yourself liking such petting, little wolf. Soon, you will realize there is no hope for escape and you will become our pet like all the others."

* * *

"And what, pray tell, do you want _me_ to do about it?" 

Dumbledore smiled fondly at the back of Severus Snape. "Just keep an ear out for him, son," he said gently. "Let me know if Voldemort has a hold of him, or any of the Death Eaters."

"I'm dreadfully busy, Albus, and keeping an 'ear out' for a sniveling, pampered celebrity is _not _something I had envisioned for this summer."

Again, Dumbledore smiled. Severus tried so hard to keep the world at bay—it was quite comical, actually, if you could get past the bluster and sarcasm and knew the boy for what he was. "Thank you, my boy."

More grumbles—Snape was hovering over a cauldron, studiously ignoring the Headmaster and growling at the liquid within all while cursing his luck, the universe, and boys that couldn't be bothered to remain where they were told to. Dumbledore moved to the fireplace.

"Just let me know, Severus. Oh, and I've brought you the shipment you requested earlier—it's right here."

A grunt answered him, and then he threw the floo powder into the fireplace. "Headmaster's office," he said casually, and stepped in.

Stepping out into the cluttered office, he looked sadly over the furniture. How many times had he had Harry in this office, sitting in that chair, or received news that Harry had hurt himself—_again_—while sitting in that chair? How many times would he have to weave more and more lies, creating a tapestry to isolate the poor boy more from those that would care for him, to prevent others from seeing what really happened to the boy?

Fawkes flew to his shoulders and looked at him reproachfully.

"I know, old friend," Dumbledore sighed. "I know. And I am sorry."


	3. To Give In To Pain

_**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR and Warner Bros and anyone else JKR lets—which does not include me.**_

_**WARNING: Torture/mental abuse scene and allusion to attempted suicide. **_

* * *

"Not so proud now, are you?" 

He slumped on the floor, trembling. He did not know how long it had been—could not know, not without a window or some way to keep track of time, but he guessed around two weeks. Two long weeks without a single hope that someone was looking for him, without any sleep, without any food, without any respite from the torture and rape and repeated taunts. And honestly, who would be looking for him? No one knew he was gone. And even if they knew he was gone, how would they find him?

"Fuck off," he whispered hoarsely.

There was a slight sigh. "Now, I thought we had spoken to you about speaking. Beasts don't _speak_, creature. _Crucio_."

He arched off the ground, a soundless scream making his chest ache and burn as nerves that seemed dead came painfully to life. Every day, every rape, every beating—it tore away a part of him, until he began to forget his name, his life, his friends . . . I am Harry, he told himself fiercely, trying to ignore the convulsions his body was going through. They won't break me. They _won't_.

The spell abruptly ended and he—no, Harry, _Harry_, not _he_—Harry fell back to the damp stone, shivering, shuddering. His voice was rapidly fading, due to the near continuous screaming and his persistence on using it even with it so badly damaged. He—no, Harry—needed to keep talking back. It was the only thing he could do. He—no, _Harry_—had tried slitting his wrists for relief from the mental pain with his teeth—had he tried it just that morning—or was it night? Nevertheless, one of them had come in immediately and cast a spell on his mouth that had created a special type of muzzle. It prevented his _own_ flesh from entering his mouth—but not other flesh, as they proved to him by forcing strips of flesh down his throat as he screamed and sobbed and cursed them and their ancestors and anything else he could think of while he prayed that it was only animals he was eating—for the other option was too horrible to contemplate. He—no, no, he was _Harry_, dammit!—had fought them, fought everything they tried to do to him, but there was just too _much_ to fight—the rapes, the touches, the forbidden speaking, the beatings, the taunts, the starvation, the sleep deprivation . . . it all combined, to the point where he was running out of strength to combat anything, let alone all those points.

He was going to break. He knew it. No, not he, _Harry_. Harry knew it. Harry did _not_ want to know it, did _not_ want to believe it, but it was there, and it was going to happen, and he couldn't do a fucking thing about it.

"Not so spirited now, are you?"

It was getting harder to fight—it was getting harder to remember _why_ he had to fight. They didn't just rape his body—his mind was fair game. Legilimens was used often enough, painfully enough, to let him know that mind-raping was far, far worse than anything that could happen to his body. It was more painful, for one thing, and left him with memories that he was almost sure weren't his, memories of hurting people and liking it—but he just could _not_ be sure, and that uncertainty was more trying and more painful than any forced invasion of his body. Eventually, he knew, they would put enough thoughts of _theirs_ in his mind that he would think like them, maybe even _like_ them, and that terrified Harry more than Harry knew was possible.

"Just . . ." Harry trailed off, and his captor stood there silently, stroking and petting his hair as if he was a pet. It disgusted Harry, repulsed him, but he couldn't pull away because of those damned chains, and it was just too much to fight anymore. He couldn't do it. He couldn't be Harry. He couldn't be the savior, not with all . . . this. He needed time to rest. To recuperate. To gather his strength and then fight back when he had had time to put himself back together.

He did not complete the sentence.

"Very good, pet. You're learning. That's very good." A slimy kiss was pressed to his shoulder and he involuntarily pulled away from the unpleasant sensation.

"Tsk, tsk, pet. You might as well get used to it. You're going to break to our touch soon enough. It's only a matter of time. Look how quickly you managed to give up fighting back with words. You know, most others kept fighting for more than two months. You didn't even last for one."

He would not cry. He would not cry. And he would pray to anyone, anything that was listening, that those words were wrong, and he would not break in the end.

* * *

"It's almost September." 

Dumbledore sighed tiredly, wearily. "I know, Remus. I know."

"He was supposed to be back by now!"

Dumbledore looked sadly over the distraught man. Normally calm and collected, easygoing and placid, the man was flushed red and shaking with repressed anger. Grief from losing his mate, Sirius, had made him focus completely on Harry and the Order. Over the summer, he had thrown himself into his Order missions and then into fixing up Grimmauld Place so that Harry would have a home once his schooling was done. Harry's disappearance . . . it was wearing the man thin.

Remus Lupin took in a wavering breath and said softly, "Something bad has happened, Dumbledore, and we don't have _any_ indication of what. Nothing. No news, no word, _nothing_."

"I know, Remus," Dumbledore said tiredly. "I know. I've had Severus looking around, but he hasn't heard anything from the meetings that indicates that Voldemort might be hiding the boy. If it's one of the Death Eaters, we figure they'd have revealed Harry's position by now in hopes to curry favor with Voldemort, but they haven't, so we must assume that Harry isn't captured. That severely limits where he could be."

Remus looked Dumbledore in the eye. "I want to be put on this mission with Severus," he stated calmly. "I need to be doing _something_, even if it's just fighting with Severus."

Dumbledore thought over the request slowly. "Well . . ." He paused. Would it harm the delicate balance he had spent years crafting, trying to make sure that Harry only relied on one person—himself—in the wizarding world and was strong enough to stand up to the darkness surrounding the world? He wasn't sure. Honestly, he was sure that, because of Remus's past with Severus, they would keep each other distracted and therefore stay away from his careful plans. "I can't see why not, if Severus accepts you. You'll have to ask him, of course."

Just as Remus opened his mouth, there was a knock on the door. Remus jumped, startled, and Dumbledore waved his hand a little. "Go to your rooms, Remus, and think it over. I need to speak to Severus privately. Enter, Severus."

The Potions master entered the office and eyed Remus warily. Remus eyed Severus with a cautious gaze before exiting the room.

"Do I even want to know what that was about, Albus?" Severus asked dryly.

With a sigh, Albus motioned to the chair in front of his desk. "You might find out soon enough. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is—it is between Remus and you. I am not going to influence your decision one way or another. Now, you said you had some interesting information?"

Severus assessed Dumbledore for a minute before shrugging. "Last night, Malfoy senior visited my house. You know his situation."

Dumbledore nodded. Malfoy was not as staunch a Death Eater as so many believed—in fact, he had been subtly aiding Severus for quite some time now, keeping a precarious balance between acting sadistic and bloodthirsty for the Dark Lord and caring towards his only son and oldest friend. "Has young Malfoy been entrusted in your care yet, Severus?" he inquired curiously.

Severus shook his head. "Not yet. There needs to be some type of falling out between Lucius and Draco. The Dark Lord would not believe anything else. Thankfully, he has not been as fervent in pressing for Draco's initiation and loyalty since Draco entered into his full veela powers."

Again, Dumbledore nodded, though absently this time. Like all pureblooded wizards, the Malfoy family had a magical creature as patron of the clan, a veela. Sometimes—especially if, like in Severus's and Lucius's families, the patron creature was humanoid—the patron creature actually mingled its blood in the line. It was believed to be a sign that a great war was coming when more and more pureblooded children were born with their patron's abilities. This had not comforted Draco, though, who nearly had a nervous breakdown due to the sheer weight of all these new strengths flooding his body. "How _is_ the young Malfoy dealing with all his newfound powers and abilities at his fingertips?"

Severus made a face. "He does not like it, and he does not want it. It doesn't help that not only are his veela powers awakening, but also some faint vampiric ones. I believe that he has some minor hypnotizing abilities, as well as shadow-walking and sharpened senses."

Dumbledore sighed and gently pointed out, "Severus, if you renounced your status as the child's godfather, there would not be this problem—"

Severus's eyes flashed angrily. "Do not presume to tell me how to live my life, Albus Dumbledore," he hissed. "I swore to protect the child from birth, and one day my abilities may be of some use to him!"

Again, Dumbledore backed off. Severus was extremely protective of the young Malfoy heir and had demonstrated that by agreeing to Lucius's request to become Draco's godfather. It not only allowed Severus guardianship of the boy should both Draco's parents pass away, it also conferred some of the abilities Severus had to the child. Severus's patron creature was a vampire, and therefore becoming Draco's godfather meant that some vampiric powers were transferred onto the youth. Dumbledore had pointed out that it would be extremely hard for the boy to deal with _two_ magical creature inheritances along with his own magical, human one, but Severus had stubbornly insisted that he would not rescind his status as godfather.

"Alright then," Dumbledore sighed. "I think Remus has something to talk to you about, and I don't want to keep you. I shall see you in a week, Severus."

Severus nodded stiffly before exiting the office.


	4. The World Turns Its Back

_**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR and Warner Bros and anyone else JKR lets—which does not include me. **_

**IMPORTANT: In this chapter, Harry is more than slightly insane, and therefore the format will be hard to follow. I have tried my hardest to keep it simple while conveying Harry's broken state.**

**WARNING: MAJOR graphic torture/mental abuse/rape scene.**

* * *

Harry couldn't move. Didn't want to. Didn't want to think, didn't want to breathe. Terrors flashed through his head—the rapes; the crooning words that, god help him, were starting to make sense in his fever-riddled mind; the tattoo, _god that had hurt like hell_; the pain; the beatings, _oh god when they__** touch**__ me—!_

"That wasn't so bad now, was it, pet?"

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god, __**please**__ make him leave. Don't let him touch me again, don't let me get hard again. Don't let me feel __**pleasure**__ when they do this to me—_

"It seemed you liked it, hmm?" Words whispered almost tenderly in his head as a tongue licked over the edge of his ear. He flinched and pulled away, his chains clanking, and he remained still as—_those damned hands those fucking bloody slimy hands that shouldn't be touching me; __**nothing**__ should be touching me_—those hands wandered carelessly over his body.

"I know you liked it," words now hissed, hands viciously gripping his waist, stroking—_oh god stop touching you can't touch there you need to stop __**touching**__ me_—inflamed flesh. "Why else were you hard and panting? Little pet, you might as well give in. Do you know what tonight is?"

_Need to stop listening to pull away retreat inside stop __**listening**__ because if you can't hear him he can't hurt you and anger and rage built up in my chest wanting to break free but I'm not strong enough and it drains away as those fucking __**hands**__ wouldn't stop circling, touching, caressing—_

"It's the full moon tonight, little monster. You're going to turn into what you truly are on the inside. Have you noticed, hmm? Noticed you can see much better, oh yes, little monster. Open your eyes."

_Wouldn't give him the satisfaction couldn't give him the satisfaction needed to keep __**something**__ away from the bastard_—

"I said open your eyes." Words hard, and he knew what was coming and tried to brace himself for it—_no one should have to go through this, right?_—for the pain that whipped through his body at the word "_Crucio_."

Not enough breath or strength to even scream, just whimper painfully in the back of his throat, arching and shuddering and convulsing and praying to _dear god please_ anyone listening that he would die before he turned.

The end came, nerves shrieking and burning and warping underneath his skin as all his wounds were reopened, his arm snapping in his frenzied spasms. And then—_oh god can't he just leave me alone_—hands touched his sensitive skin, dancing tantalizingly over his groin before slipping upwards to tease his nipples. A moan of pleasure and pain and disgust and—_god why couldn't I be normal and hate what's being done to my body, hate myself for giving in like this, can't I even control my own __**body**_—escaped his throat, and he tried to pull away.

"You like it, little monster. I could sit here and torture you and then just brush your dick and you'll be moaning like a little whore, won't you, pet?" Those words, cruel and soft and tearing and gentle skittered into his ear as a tongue suckled at the juncture of neck and collarbone. A small whimper broke free, and—_god I want to die I want to kill myself I want to __**kill myself!**_—he found himself holding still in anticipation—_little freak Vernon was right you don't deserve __**anything**__ unnatural boy nothing more than a little slut everything that happens you deserve it_—as that mouth curved into a smile and nibbled at the very edge of Harry's—was he Harry? could he be Harry?—at the very edge of his mouth.

"Open your eyes, little whore," the voice continued, singsong and playful as the hands curled around the rapidly stiffening member—_traitor why are you enjoying this should just cut it off and save myself the trouble of all this oh god make him __**stop touching me**_—and fluttered suggestively.

There was a huff of breath on one side of his face, and scared of more pain, of not receiving any food, and dazed by—_little freak little whore little __**monster**__ because he's right you __**are**__ a monster_—pleasure and lust, he slipped open eyes that didn't want to see what was around but were too scared to remain shut.

The cell was dingy, small, and he was in the center. Piss, shit, and semen soaked the floor beneath his body—because it had only been three weeks, after all, he could remember one of Them saying, and could They really expect him to break without subjecting him to everything?—and the combined smell tore at his nostrils, burned his mind and his insides. It wasn't just those smells, even—every smell he could pick out with startling clarity—there were the scents of his captors, named by voices and peculiarities because they gave him nothing else to identify themselves, such as Oil, with his curling voice and slimy hands that always managed to make him feel dirty, soiled, more so than any of the others—Whip, who loved to make patterns of blood and stripped his skin with the cat o' nine tails—Crooning, the man with him now, the one who talked and told him how he deserved it how he liked it, voice purring and oh so gentle even when the actions weren't—Father, who called him son and made him open his mouth and suck him off and jerked off over his back and head, splashing him with semen everywhere and told him that if his biological father was alive he'd be doing this too—Blood, who never raped him but was fascinated with seeing how much blood he could bring out, coax to the surface, and laid careful, planned cuts dedicated for maximum pain with maximum blood but always stopping before Harry could die from blood loss and for that Harry hated him more than any of the others—and the last man who Harry never heard speak, never wanted to hear speak, and so called him Silent—Harry's own semen—his feces, his urine, his vomit—his fear—his lust—Their lust—his hunger—his blood soaked on the floor—his sweat—mold—water—smells that overwhelmed him as he had no name for them and smells that confused him, made it hard for him to focus. Then the _sounds_—dripping of water, the harsh breaths of Crooning, his captor—someone shifting outside in the corridor—faint screams and blissful moans and begging—harsh scraping against stone floor—sounds that made no sense and came to him jumbled and distorted, sometimes loud and sometimes soft.

Only when the whispered words, still soft and gentle, but with steel lacing the tone, "You closed your eyes, little whore," and the hands running over his penis, massaging and stroking, made him open his eyes and take in—_sight oh god I don't want to see this it's already too real too real oh god make it stop make __**me**__ stop kill me let me die_—the sight of the tiny cell, but he couldn't see his captor, his tormentor, for his eyes locked onto an emancipated, malnourished, scrawny form, easily twice his size even though it was so skinny and he could count the ribs, and he knew those eyes, those eyes, black but burning with insanity, with fervor—

"Do you see him, little whore?"

He saw him, and he didn't want to, because he was—_scared oh god this man no not a man this skeleton is connected to me and I don't want to know who he is please take him away please I won't talk ever again at all I won't think any bad thoughts about you or about any of you I'll do anything for you but please just take him away_—terrified of this man before him, this naked man that sat cross-legged, a silver collar around his throat that burned the skin and Harry nearly vomited when he could smell the cooked flesh, the hair black and lank and greasy, and suddenly—

—suddenly, he could remember, remember that there was someone else with greasy hair in his life, wasn't there? The person whose name was Harry, not little whore or little pet or little monster, he could remember a cauldron, a scowl and sneer, and he wondered who this person was, wasn't he important, but no, this person was someone different from that one, someone evil, and he shook his head to push the memories away—

"That's your sire, little monster. Wolf 26. The scars at your throat, they come from him. Your new senses, they come from him. He is your father now, little monster. 26, come here."

Immediately, the shriveled man crawled over, eyes alight with lust and terror. A hand reached out—curled like a claw, dirty, spotted, tanned skin—and petted the oily hair soothingly. "You know to obey, don't you, wolf?"

Harry stared in fear and disgust as those black eyes glazed with utter bliss and the man groaned under the captor's administrations, becoming hard, and—_oh god I'm getting harder oh god I'm not that sick please tell me I'm not that sick oh my god will there ever be a day where I'll be like that eager to be touched loving to be touched by __**Them**_—then the hand around his own cock stroked down, rubbed lovingly, and unwillingly—_no willingly, you little whore you like it your body likes it and how weak are you that you can't control your body_—he bucked into the grip, breath sobbing in his mutilated throat.

"I want you to suck your son, wolf. I want you to get under and show him the pleasure that comes from his new family, hmm?"

The man opened his eyes, tongue out and panting, and turned that glazed look on Harry, who whimpered and tried to get away, to move away from that scorched flesh, scarred skin, marred hide and insane eyes, but the chains clanked, and his movement was halted, and all he could do was kneel there, shivering, shuddering—_oh my god he's really going to do it oh my god please __**please**__ oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no_—

Something wet, small, tickling, almost, brushed against over-sensitive flesh, and he yelped pitifully, pulling away from the mouth and the man beneath him but hands held him still, strong hands, rough hands, hands that bruised his hips and allowed him no movement—_god no please no I don't want this, I don't want this, please no please no please no_—

Then that mouth latched on, sucking, suckling, earnest and eager and he couldn't stop the groan of pleasure—_little whore you like it __**you like it!**__ you can't like it, you __**can't**__ you have to stop oh please no let me control my body oh no oh no oh please stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it __**stop it!**_—

Those hands let go, and his hips thrust forward, eager like the tongue and mouth and man beneath him even as he whispered no no no no over and over and over again, and then new hands, other hands, gripped his chin.

"Did I give you permission to speak, little whore?" Oh god that voice—_need to get away can't stay here need to run away how can I run away I need to get __**free**__ oh god please let me die let me die let me die let me die let me die . . . _

"I don't know why you're acting like this," the voice murmured, and a hand petted his head absently. He grunted, pleasure building even as he fought it, fought what it would mean, fought what it would _do_ to him—_I can't like this I won't like this I__** won't**__ oh god please oh please_—

"You like it. You want it." The hand stilled for a minute, before picking its way down his back delicately. "Look at you. Humping like a little bitch. Moaning and whining in the back of your throat."

Tears stung his eyes, trickled underneath the closed eyelids and traced familiar paths down his cheeks even as he arched his back and all muscles went taut, and the mouth beneath him swallowed and petted and stroked and coaxed and finally—_finally oh god oh god what did I __**do**__ why did I __**do**__ that I __**am**__ a whore I __**am**__ a freak I __**am**__ a monster_—the form beneath him left, left him shuddering and shivering and trembling and whimpering like a pathetic little dog.

"Tonight it will be very special," the voice crooned, dancing over his back and the words dancing on his nerves. "Very special indeed. Have a good transformation, my little monster."

* * *

First day of classes. Severus glowered at all the annoying first years while his mind was preoccupied with dark thoughts. Ever since Dumbledore had asked him to keep an ear out for Harry Potter, he had dutifully been alert, both from the common side and from Death Eater meetings, but nothing had come up. _Nothing_. Not even a whisper that something interesting was happening, or going to happen, or had happened. It was _extremely _unusual for any Death Eaters to refrain from boasting, for all Death Eaters were praised and rewarded due to feats, and the only way to bring to light some of the deeds they did was to brag about such actions where the Dark Lord or one of the Dark Lord's inner circle members could hear. 

This meant a very unusual and entirely unplanned for situation had occurred. One that no one, not even Dumbledore himself, could figure out. It didn't matter that Dumbledore had announced calmly at the Welcoming Feast that Harry was secluded away and was undergoing training—the panic was there, in the children and teachers both. Severus could sense that Dumbledore knew of the panic, and didn't know how to alleviate it. It was faintly—no, _frighteningly_ disturbing. Dumbledore couldn't make a mistake, not with the life of the infamous Harry Potter. Potter was needed by too many people.

It didn't help that Remus was hanging around so much. He didn't _like_ it when Remus was haunting the Snape manor. It reminded him too much of—well, just _too much_. He needed to get Remus away, at least for a while, because it hurt too much to have those eyes and that hair flashing in the corridors, hiding away in rooms because Remus was still as shy as ever, still as tentative as ever, and a _hell_ of a lot more hurt than he ever used to be. In fact . . . in fact, for pain and betrayal in his life, he practically matched Severus himself. And that bothered Severus. Immensely.

He closed the door after the last of the first years had left—last class of the day, and he didn't have to deal with the ignorant brats until tomorrow. He sat behind his desk and studied his options thoroughly.

"Snape?"

He turned to the fire—Remus's head was there, eyes hooded and more than a little angry.

"What?" he snapped, furious at being disturbed.

Remus flinched a little, but didn't move. "Did you see the _Daily Prophet_ this morning? When they found out that Harry didn't get on the train?"

A bad feeling settled in the pit of his stomach—not that he'd admit it to the wolf. "No, I hadn't. I was too busy dealing with insufferable lack-wits who should never have been accepted to Hogwarts in the first place and repeatedly tried to kill me with their horrendous parody of potion making."

Remus smiled faintly. "Oh good. Not that it'd matter much."

And with that, his head popped out of the fireplace.

Dammit. Now Severus _wanted_ to look.

When he got the paper, he stared in shock at the headline.

* * *

BOY WHO LIVED TURNED DARK!

On September 1st, hundreds of students piled into the Hogwarts Express, eager to return to their beloved school and professors. However, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was conspicuously absent. The world was shocked and appalled to learn that no one had come to drop off the Savior, and so this reporter took it upon herself to investigate.

The house at Surrey, hidden by hundreds of wards and countless magical protections, sat sedately as this reporter uncovered unspeakable horrors within. "He ran away. Little brat never liked us, always threatened us with his magic and refused to help out around the house, expected us to wait on him hand and foot. I have a job, my wife can't spend her entire day focusing on a spoiled boy, and my son has his own friends. Frankly, I'm glad that the monster is gone. Maybe now there will be some peace in this house," said Vernon Dursley, Harry Potter's uncle and one of three remaining relatives.

Up in the room designated for Harry Potter, locks were found on the outside of the door. "When he leaves for school every year, he locks his room and threatens us with horrible deaths if we try to open it. Strange noises and smells come from there sometimes," Dudley Dursley, Harry Potter's cousin explains.

What was even more shocking and heinous was the blood liberally splattered over the entire room. When questioned, all three family members shrugged. "He takes knives and mutters strange words behind his door. We don't bother him. We just get him his food and try to make sure not to anger him," Petunia Dursley confided. "My Dudley has always been frightened of what Potter can do. Many times I've seen strange bruises and cuts, and asked him what happened, but he's too scared to tell me. I know who did it, but what can I do? If I make Harry upset, he'll take it out on me and my entire family. All we can do is endure."

These horrifying facts point blatantly to the fact that not only is Harry Potter spoiled and a bully, but practicing the Dark Arts in his own home, using Blood Magic. This reporter asks, is this the boy we are going to trust our future to?

* * *

Severus snarled and threw the article to the ground. For a moment, he entertained the idea that the article was right, and Potter had simply run away. 

No. Potter might well turn Dark—but he would never leave his friends. If it had been an option to come to Hogwarts, Potter would have fought tooth and nail to secure it—just look at the boy's second year, with that ridiculous flying car. No, something was wrong.

Severus quickly fire-called Remus. "Remus, how do you feel about stopping by Surrey this weekend?"


End file.
